


Anomaly of a Night In

by by_no_one_more_than_me (Lady_Cleo)



Series: Facebook fic prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor Strange (2016) Spoilers, M/M, MCU Reference, Mild Language, My First Mystrade, Netflix and Chill, Prompt Fic, Slight spoiler warning in effect, Stuff happens when you're dating the British Government, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-21 08:47:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16573397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/by_no_one_more_than_me
Summary: Greg had worked up the nerve to ask the British Government over to "Netflix and chill," and the closer the clock ticked towards the elder Holmes' ETA, the more nervous he got. A takeaway dinner was keeping warm in the oven, a bottle of suitably priced red wine was breathing on the counter, and Greg was hyperventilating somewhere near the couch.





	Anomaly of a Night In

**Author's Note:**

> So these two adorkable foxes are kind of my jam. I adore them and devour fic and occasionally even write it and here I am finally posting something. Hope you enjoy this. I'll be in the corner screaming into a pillow.
> 
> Note: this fic contains minor spoilers for the 2016 installment of the MCU, Doctor Strange.

It had been three weeks since their first "official" date. Mycroft firmly believed any time they'd met in past without Sherlock as at least a topic of conversation counted. Greg vehemently disagreed that if sex or a snog wasn't at least a remote possibility following an interaction, it wasn't a date.

But the one thing they'd agreed on was that they did, in fact, wish to date one another and no one else, and the night they'd decided  **that**  was (to Greg's mind) their first "official" date. They'd only managed 4 dinners and a rather spectacular makeout session following a trip to an art museum in the time since, with various crimes about town and crises outside of it demanding their attentions.

Anthea had let Greg know that Mycroft and his team had returned from an assignment in the Far East the day before, and that following a series of forms and reports on the goings-on while they'd been there, he should be free for the next 36 hours. 

So Greg had worked up the nerve to ask the British Government over to "Netflix and chill," and the closer the clock ticked towards the elder Holmes' ETA, the more nervous he got. A takeaway dinner was keeping warm in the oven, a bottle of suitably priced red wine was breathing on the counter, and Greg was hyperventilating somewhere near the couch.

What the hell had he been thinking?! This was Mycroft 'minor position, my arse'  **Holmes**  he'd invited over tonight. To Netflix and bloody chill? This was going to be a disaster! Assuming the unfairly attractive man even knew what that  _meant_ , it was still the definition of a low-brow night. He'd been striving for low-key, something to help Mycroft unwind (and preferably undo a few other things) around Greg so they could get closer and get to know one another and possibly share another breathtakingly hot snog together... without getting interrupted by persons living or dead demanding their focus.

He had to call somewhere, do something, anything.  _Anywhere._  Get a reservation by hook or by crook, pack the food in a basket and take Mycroft for a sunset picnic by the Thames - anything but let him turn up here and sit on Greg's nice enough couch and... and...

His freak-out was temporarily halted by a confident knock on the door.

_Oh. Holy. Shit._

Against all odds, Greg managed to draw enough oxygen to function and walked to the door like a man approaching a guillotine. He took in one more hit of brain-saving oxygen, turned the knob and pulled the door open.

"Hello, Gregory" Mycroft said, small crinkles forming around those deceptively cool blue eyes, indicating his smile was, in fact, genuine. And directed at Greg.

Who belatedly realized he was staring with a slightly slack jaw at the head to toe immaculateness of his... date.

"Sorry. Hi. C'mon in." Greg stepped back and gestured Mycroft inside with a convincing grin pasted on his face, taking his time shutting the door to get a ruddy grip.

Mycroft turned his back and calmly asked "Do you mind?"

Greg managed to rip his gaze away from the sumptuous curve of the elder Holmes' glorious backside in the perfectly tailored trousers and realized Mycroft was going to remove his jacket. He was willingly removing a layer of his armor in Greg's home, and the trust implicit in the action gave Greg a funny tight little tickle in his throat before he complied, letting his fingertips trail down Mycroft's back as he deftly slid the coat off.

After that, of course, he had no idea what to do with a piece of clothing that probably cost twice his rent, as the row of pegs by the door for such things seemed right out. But Mycroft simply stepped in, giving Greg a small kiss on the cheek and a murmured 'thank you' as he retrieved the article, did a complex looking fold, and set it on a table by the door that was currently supporting his ever-present brolly.

Then the British Government stood gazing at him expectantly, and Greg gave himself a mental kick for letting the unnecessary silence linger and stretch.

"Hungry?"

"Famished. Thank you."

"Kay. Dinner's just about ready. C'mon through, if you're alright eating in the kitchen." Mycroft's brows rose a fraction of an inch and Greg's small swell of bravado tripped over its own feet into a wood chipper.

_Of course it's not alright, you tit! He probably has a dining table and a room to keep it, some proper antique that could seat 12 and belonged to some toff Lord in the Medieval Renaissance. You're only suggesting your daft bit of furniture because the only other option is balancing plates on your knees on the bloody sofa! That's-_

"Perfectly alright, Gregory. Thank you." Their fingers were touching, starting to thread through each other like questing vines, and Greg let himself be led from the room without speaking another syllable just to avoid breaking the spell.

Dinner was well-received, partly because Greg had ordered some of Mycroft's favourites from the place down the lane, and partly because from what he was gathering listening to Mycroft tell him what he could about the past few days, he could've served cat food on a nice dish and gotten about the same response.

The government official found opportunities to touch Greg throughout the meal - an 'accidental' brush of fingers when topping off the wine or sharing bites, gently wiping a trickle of sauce from the corner of Greg's lips - and the DI felt himself relaxing as the stress of impending doom lowered until it oozed harmlessly onto the floor and took itself elsewhere.

Mycroft leaned back after a while with a contented sigh and a smile to match it playing about the corners of his mouth. "Gregory, you are a true marvel. Who else would've guessed I needed a quiet night and a good meal at home?"

Greg mentally retorted, wanting to offset the thrill of pleasure he derived from the compliment. _Sherlock. That leggy PA with the revolving names and the mobile permanently attached to her fingers._

"And actually made sure I got what I needed?" Mycroft's voice gently derailed train of thought, brooking no argument over Greg's perceived assistance. Greg felt his face getting a bit warm, chalking it up to the wine.

And perhaps the elegant fingers tracing nonsensical designs over the pulse point in his wrist.

Mycroft insisted on clearing the table and treated Greg to the rare treat of bared forearms as he rolled his sleeves up and rinsed the dishes before loading the dishwasher and tucking the leftovers into the fridge. Greg led the way into the living room, neatly stumbling into the coffee table and giving himself what promised to be a mighty bruise when Mycroft slid off his tie and undid the top two buttons of his luxuriously soft shirt. The tie joined his coat on the table and the man joined his date on the squashy sofa, deliberately sitting right beside him.

Greg fumbled a moment with difficult things like breathing and coherent speech, then grabbed up the remote from the table and powered on the flatscreen on the far wall. Taking a chance, he stretched an arm up and around the other man's shoulders, settling with a tentative lightness so it could be removed in a hurry.

But the ginger government official on his sofa just wriggled in a manner so graceful it had to be called something else, and tucked himself into Greg's side with a quirked smile.

Greg settled a little more, kicking up a heel onto the coffee table and tugging the other man just a bit closer as Netflix announced itself with a booming  **bwong!**

They scrolled through the  _Recently Added_  and  _Trending Now_  tabs, eschewing anything too serious, too silly or even remotely spy-ish, and finally landed on Doctor Strange. Mycroft was peripherally familiar with the MCU, and Greg had taken his nieces as an excuse to see every film in the franchise thus far, so they were at least on the same page when the film started.

Before the opening credits even rolled, Greg started to notice something odd. Mycroft was calmly sipping his wine, pressed comfortably against Greg's side. About the time the doctor was meeting with the Ancient One and being astrally blasted around several dimensions, he was really noticing it.

The actor with the unpronounceable name staring back at him shaking and wide-eyed... bore a striking resemblance to a certain consulting detective.

He watched with a growing feeling of unease as the doctor nicked books from the library, cozied up to a magical cloak, went from the mountains of Tibet to the concrete jungle of Manhattan and had an inter-dimensional fight with a mad man in hospital. The hair was shorter and neater and nary a curl could be spotted, and the facial hair and expression lurking around the eyes made him seem older, but the eyes themselves? Decidedly Holmesian. The ears, the walk, the posture, the discounting of emotional connection, the overwhelming arrogance of the character.... all of it made him think of Sherlock. Which was really one of the last things he wanted to be thinking about when a gorgeous ginger was laying their head on his shoulder and drawing little patterns on the fabric by his knee with their sinfully long fingers.

But he couldn't shake it as they watched the man tell Dormammu he'd come to bargain for the umpteenth time and he couldn't shake it all through the end credits, and even after the post-credit stinger, he still couldn't shake it. And worse, he  _knew_  Mycroft could tell he'd been distracted.

The movement was gradual, not immediately obvious, so Greg was more than a little surprised by the sudden press of warm lips and the silky slide of a tongue along the side of his throat. His eyes went wide, then slid closed as Mycroft's talented mouth devoured his jawline and dotted his cheek with kisses and rasped over his recalcitrant stubble and closed over the delicate flesh of his earlobe with just a hint of teeth. A low groan escaped him and his fingers flexed against Mycroft's cloth-clad back as the younger man's aristocratic nose grazed the shell of his ear, quickly followed by his lips.

"Gregory," came the insistent whisper. Neither plea nor command, yet Greg felt himself responding to it like a programmed code word. 

His eyes snapped open and his hands tightened and he bloody well  _hauled_  the elder Holmes into his lap, palming his hip on one side and dragging him closer as his other hand slid up over every ridge and dip of Mycroft's spine to cup the back of his neck and arch him like a bow to meet his mouth.

Their lips met, clashed, held. Greg's fingers slid up to tangle in the perfectly arranged auburn strands and when Mycroft gasped at the sensation, Greg took full advantage and licked into the younger man's mouth. The intoxicating taste of him instantly branded itself on his tongue, and they spent innumerable seconds mapping each other and swallowing each other's sighs. 

Straddling his lap as Mycroft was, Greg could feel the other man's burgeoning arousal pressing down into his own. He fought gallantly against the urge to buck up to increase the torturously subtle friction... only to be pleasantly shocked when Mycroft rolled his hips in a sinuous circuit that threatened Greg's sanity and rapidly shredding self-control.

After what could've been 5 minutes or 20 years, Mycroft broke the kiss to deliver a series of little pecks and dots across Greg's lips, a soft nibble down the column of his throat, a nuzzle behind his ear.

He drew in a deep breath and the older man mentally braced himself for some erotic suggestion or deliciously authoritative command.

"I know what you were thinking during the film."

 _Oh. Holy. Shit._  His brain tried valiantly to form rational explanations (or really sentences of any sort), a shiver was skipping up and down his back, and his mouth flexed a moment, preparing to say... something. But those divine digits merely asserted themselves over Greg's kiss-swollen lips and the unreadable depths of those glacial orbs drew him into a state of consensual silence.

"I'm not blind, Gregory. The resemblance is quite remarkable, and hard to miss if one is even peripherally acquainted with my brother. And it is quite alright. Shall I tell you why?" It wasn't really an invitation or a request, but Greg swallowed hard past the ball of confusion in his throat and nodded anyway. "A recent scientific study indicates that throughout one's lifetime, there are a half dozen people or so somewhere on the planet who happen to look like them. A strange quirk, a tangential holdover from the universal tribe from which we all purportedly branched."

 _Bloody hell,_ Greg mused.  _A half-dozen Sherlock lookalikes? Knockoff Watsons? Mycroft Holmes clones? A few sets of Lestrade doubles?_ It boggled the mind.

"And of course, this being the age it is of Hollywood and media, it stands to reason one of them was bound to end up an actor."

"It's a strange world alright," Greg mumbled against Mycroft's hand, taking the opportunity to lick his palm with a quick teasing flick of the tongue. The hand, still bearing traces of his DNA, slid to cup the side of Greg's face instead. "Ever curious what else he's done? Maybe there's a whole fictionalized world of other us somewhere. Some dashing silver fox who works for the government and does Forster plays, and the dishy redhead author he goes home to, and his problematic but lovable sibling who's shacking up with... I dunno, off-brand Arthur Dent or something. We could have a viewing night! It bears thinking abo- _ohhhhh._ "

He broke off as Mycroft rolled his hips again, ending with a resolute downward grind.

"Gregory," he exhaled, with a sensually tense edge and only a trace of frustation. "I'd  _really_ rather not be talking about my brother and his doppelgangers right now. In point of fact..." The hips swiveled in a slow figure-eight torsion that nearly drove Greg spare with anticipatory need. "I'd rather not be  _talking_ at all."

"Yeah," Greg gasped in agreement. His hands settled firmly beneath the join of the younger man's thighs to his firm ass and with a concentrated burst of power he stood, holding the British Government aloft in surprise until those impossibly long legs twined around Greg's hips. His voice lowered half an octave to a more suggestive (and dangerously effective) register. "Too right. Hell with it. Sherlock  _who?_ " 

Mycroft's only reply was a wicked grin that morphed into a contented chuckle against Greg's mouth that promptly turned to a muted squeak as Greg jostled him up a bit and headed for the bedroom.

They could discuss the peculiarities of the universe another time.

At the moment, there were **far** more pressing matters to deal with.

**Author's Note:**

> Another scientific study shows that comments and kudos can extend the life of a fanfic writer.


End file.
